


Painted Lives

by ariel2me



Series: Orys/Argella [11]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:34:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26941477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel2me/pseuds/ariel2me
Summary: “My husband will do me the honor of escorting me there.”“There are many steps to climb, to reach the Chamber of the Painted Table,” said Orys, clearly unwilling.“Surely the king’s most puissant warrior is equal to the task?”Orys flushed. “My concern is solely foryoursake, my lady.”“You need not fear, my lord. I have climbedfarmore treacherous steps in my life, and I have survived them all, somehow. In one way or another.”Argella Durrandon, Orys Baratheon and the Painted Table.
Relationships: Orys Baratheon/Argella Durrandon
Series: Orys/Argella [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/87847
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64





	Painted Lives

_Years_ _before that voyage, the Painted Table had been carved and decorated at Lord Aegon’s command: a massive slab of wood, some fifty feet long, carved in the shape of Westeros and painted to show all the woods and rivers and towns and castles of the Seven Kingdoms._ _Plainly, Aegon’s interest in Westeros long predated the events that drove him to war. (The World of Ice and Fire)_

**______________________**

She had heard too many blood-curdling tales about Dragonstone to be intimidated by the real thing, which seemed quite tame in comparison to the stories. “May I see the Painted Table?” Argella asked her hosts, on the very first day of her visit to the castle.

Aegon exchanged cryptic glances with Orys. Visenya threw her head back and laughed a scornful laugh. Rhaenys was the one who replied, “Certainly. I will take you there myself, Lady Argella.”

Argella demurred. “My husband will do me the honor of escorting me there.” 

“There are many steps to climb, to reach the Chamber of the Painted Table,” said Orys, clearly unwilling.

“Surely the king’s most puissant warrior is equal to the task?”

Orys flushed. “My concern is solely for _your_ sake, my lady.”

“You need not fear, my lord. I have climbed _far_ more treacherous steps in my life, and I have survived them all, somehow. In one way or another.”

Her survival came at a great cost, however. At a great cost to her pride, yes, but that was the least of it. The injury done to her dignity and to her sense of self was far more grave and wounding. And worst of all, in her eyes, was the injury done to her heart, in which resentment, bitterness and fury were taking up too much space, elbowing aside more worthy sentiments she had once cherished and nurtured. 

Needless to say, this was not something she was eager to disclose to anyone, least of all to the man who had robbed her of her destiny. 

The steps leading up to the Chamber of the Painted Table were narrow and steep, yet they could have accommodated two people climbing side by side. Despite that fact, Orys remained two steps behind Argella the entire time, as they made the climb. 

Argella remarked, halting her steps and turning around to look her husband in the face, “Are you waiting to catch me in case I fall? Does your much vaunted chivalry extend even here, when we are alone and there are no eyes watching your conduct other than my own? Am I expected to publicly extol your gallantry during the feast tonight, my lord? Or should I reserve it for your tombstone? _Here lies Orys Baratheon, who is the very soul of chivalry.”_

Orys refused to be drawn into yet another argument on the question of chivalry, and the public performance of it. “Someone could be making a descent from the Chamber,” he replied, jaw clenched, eyes staring straight ahead. “The left side is for ascending, and the right side is for descending. That is the custom.”

“The guardsmen below have assured us that there is no one in the Chamber at the present moment. No one will be making a descent … unless you are expecting the shades of Targaryens past to come down these stairs?”

“It is safer this way,” Orys insisted. 

_Safer for me, or safer for you, my lord?_ Was he afraid of being pushed, if they were climbing the steps side by side?

“There are no ghosts. I do not believe in them,” he added, less audibly this time.

Argella heard him nonetheless. “How fortunate for you. I do not believe in ghosts either, and yet I am haunted by them each and every day,” she said, bitterly.

The mostdemanding ghost was the shade of her past self, of the Storm Queen she had been before she became Lady Baratheon. _That_ ghost cried out daily to be fed. It howled and screamed for blood, for vengeance, for deeds Argella could not bring herself to commit, owing to numerous reasons too convoluted and contradictory to elucidate.

But _foremost_ among those reasons was the fact that she still, despite it all, wanted to live, to survive, and eventually to _outlive_ them all, to outlive the three conquerors and their bastard half-brother. _She_ would be the last one standing, to tell her own story to her descendants, to _his_ descendants. Neither her husband nor his half-siblings would have the last word; she was determined to ensure _that_ , at least. 

They continued their climb up the steps to the Chamber of the Painted Table in silence. As Argella reached the uppermost step, Orys broke that silence. “I am not haunted by ghosts in _this_ castle,” he said, leaving open the possibility that he was haunted by them at _another_ castle. At Storm’s End, perhaps. Argella certainly hoped so. It was only fair. No, it was nowhere close to being fair, but at least it was _something_ , measly and inadequate as it was. 

_I hope it is not just my father’s ghost haunting you. That is far too_ _easy, my lord._ He deserved to be haunted by the hungry ghost of his past self too, who, like her own ghost, would demand to be fed daily. 

“Perhaps you are not haunted by ghosts in _this_ castle because it is your home,” replied Argella. “Alas, I have no such respite in my own home.”

“Dragonstone is not my home. It has never been my home,” said Orys, bleakly. 

Oh, how she resented the yearning and mournful tone of his voice! What right did he have to expect any sympathy from her, or any understanding for that matter? _He_ who had stolen herhome and her life, who had not spared her any sympathy or understanding until _after_ he had triumphed over her. 

“If you were any other man,” she told him, “I would have sympathized with your predicament. But you are _not_ any other man.” 

“I do not require your sympathy,” replied Orys, stiffly.

 _If you do not require it, then do not parade that pitiful look on your face every time we speak of home,_ Argella yearned to shout. She resented him for this too, for this unquenchable desire to wound that now festered in her heart. _I was never this cold, before you stole everything from me._

The walls of the Chamber of the Painted Table were bare black stones unadorned by any tapestry or painting. Sunlight streamed into the room through four narrow and tall windows, facing east, west, north and south. The room was devoid of any extraneous objects. Clearly, all eyes were supposed to be drawn to the center, to the Painted Table itself.

The Carved Tablewould have been a more fitting name for it, thought Argella. Even as her fury began to mount, staring at this instrument of conquest, a part of her was marveling at the craftsmanship and artistry of the carpenters who had done the carving. Rivers and lakes, mountains and valleys, castles and towns; all were depicted very vividly on the Painted Table.

Her fingers traced the route from Dragonstone to Storm’s End. She closed her eyes and imagined Storm’s End as it once was, before she was forced to walk down its halls feeling like a dispossessed wraith. She journeyed from room to room, from one courtyard to another, hearing the roaring sound of thunder as a ferocious storm assailed the castle that could not be breached by _any_ storm, seeing the smiling faces of the once-trusted men who made up the castle’s garrison, before she learned to suspect each and every one of them of treachery. Her reverie ended when Orys cleared his throat and asked, “Have you seen enough, my lady?”

Argella opened her eyes. She finally saw the array of painted soldiers with their little banners that she had not noticed before, intent as she was on tracing the route to Storm’s End. The wooden soldiers were positioned to march towards Dorne, on the Painted Table. 

She asked, “Were you and your king plotting out the coming battle on this table? Was that why you were hesitant to take me up here?”

Orys did not deny it.

Argella pressed on, “How many times did you play out your war games on this table, before the Conquest? How many years ago did Aegon commission the carving of the Painted Table? It was all a pretext, was it not? My father gave Aegon the pretext he had been waiting for all along. It was never truly about the envoy’s chopped hand. That was merely the justification he used to launch his long-planned invasion.”

“You claimed to have known those things already, my lady, long before you ever set foot in this room,” Orys reminded her.

“Oh yes, but to see it with my own eyes …” Argella’s voice trailed off into a long silence. Her hand grabbed hold of one of the wooden soldiers. “Dorne will not submit so easily,” she finally said, gripping the painted soldier tightly in her grasp, as if trying to strangle it.

Orys frowned. “Is that a counsel, or a warning, my lady?”

“Call it a prophecy, my lord.”


End file.
